


Harmony

by caras_galadhon (Galadriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Concerts, Country & Western, Country Music, Domestic, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:03:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel/pseuds/caras_galadhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo's got tickets, but Sean's not a fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> It was plot fic, or go crazy watching all the cheesy little guitar pins flash over and over and over and...

_"Do you want to see my willy?"_

"Mmph." Sean moaned and cautiously opened one eye as the bed shook beside him. "What?"

"Do you want to see Willie? Willie Nelson." A fully-clothed and too-awake Viggo grinned at him as he bounced gently on the mattress. "I got us tickets." He leaned down, lips puckered, and at the last minute lost his balance, managing to mash his mouth against Sean's forehead in a sloppy, wet kiss.

Sean squinted at Viggo, taking in the overly-enthusiastic smile, the slight vibration in his voice, and considered his options very carefully. "If I say yes," he murmured, "will I be able to go back to sleep?"

Viggo nodded.

Sean pulled the covers up under his chin and rolled onto his side. He closed his eyes. "Then yes."

After a moment or two, the bouncing slowed to a stop.

***

"I didn't think you meant _today._ Isn't there usually some sort of advance planning involved? Sold-out concerts and all that?"

Viggo straightened his Stetson, and smiled at the mirrored reflection of Sean tugging on his jeans. "I pulled some strings. It wasn't too hard. Told the ladies at the box office that Sharpe was a big fan."

The mirror-Sean looked up. "And when they asked who the hell that was?"

"I told them Boromir was a big fan too."

Sean chuckled and reached for his shirt. Viggo had suggested plaid -- for the authentic Country Western experience, he had patiently explained -- but Sean had vetoed it out of hand. Blue shirt, blue jeans, sneakers; it was a concert, not a rodeo, and last time he checked, he wasn't the one performing. At least, not the way Viggo preferred, and certainly not in public.

***

"Isn't he the one who doesn't pay his taxes?"

"What?" Viggo glanced up from the boots he was lovingly cleaning, although why he bothered Sean wasn't sure. They looked like they'd done more than their fair share of shit-kicking and board-stomping than any footwear had the right to.

Sean leaned against the doorframe, threading his fingers through his belt loops in what he hoped was a suitably Western-way. He scanned the hallway, conspiratorial grin firmly in place as he stage-whispered, "Willie Nelson. He doesn't pay his taxes."

"Lots of people don't pay their taxes." Viggo scrubbed a little harder at a particularly ground-in swath of mud, then sighed, opened his fingers and let the shammy slide down his boot to the floor.

"I do." Sean smiled, soft and slow. "Come to think of it, so do you."

The shammy made a rather disappointing _splat_ as it hit the wall beside Sean's head.

***

"Doesn't he stand for everything you're against? Big trucks, big business, big money?"

Viggo's knuckles turned a little bit whiter as he regripped the steering wheel.

Actually, Sean mused, his lips were thinning out, losing colour too. Funny, that. "Doesn't he? I read an article about him--" he gestured vaguely at the dashboard, "--somewhere."

Viggo shifted slightly forward in his seat and turned on the radio with a decisive _click._ There was a short burble of confused notes before an announcer cut in and began gurgling over the latest jazz compilation by someone Sean had never heard of. Or read about in a magazine, as a point of fact.

It was a simple matter to turn down the volume. "Same article said he had, what, four albums coming out this year? A movie, too? Maybe a book. I can't remember if there was a book or not. That's rather..." he savoured the roll of the word on his tongue, " _commercial_ of him, isn't it?" He snickered as he nudged Viggo. "Isn't it?"

The car slid smoothly to a halt at a stoplight. Viggo turned to face Sean, eyes narrowing into slits.

Sean beamed.

***

_...Let the Devil take tomorrow, 'cause tonight I need a friend..._

The concert, Sean reflected, wasn't so bad. The old fart had a great lower range, and Sean knew more of his songs than he thought. The beer Viggo kept buying him had no body and tasted mostly like water, but it was still good enough to give him a nice, warm buzz, spreading out in comfortable waves to his extremities. He settled back in his seat and knocked Viggo's Stetson -- having somehow migrated to _his_ head -- back to a comfortable and, he was sure, a no doubt dashing angle. He'd even begun to find those bloody flashing guitar pins that everyone and their horse were wearing mildly charming.

How could he not, what with Viggo's hand on his thigh creeping progressively higher with each new song?

Viggo had flagged down a roaming vendor and was standing half in the aisle, paying for another round of watery suds when Sean decided that it was time to stop ragging on him. He should, after all, show some gratitude for a nice evening out, right? It was only fair.

He reached across the seats and snagged Viggo's pocket. With the exception of a stiff patch of dried lacquer, the denim felt good under his fingers, soft and worn; why hadn't he noticed that before? He tugged hard enough to get Viggo to turn in mid-transaction which, incidentally, was the exact amount of force needed to rip the edge of the pocket away from the seam.

Once Viggo's eyes were on him, he gestured magnanimously at the stage. "S'good!"

Viggo nodded and turned back to the vendor. Moments later he was eye-level with Sean again, a beer in one hand, the other held close to his body, cup tucked between the crook of his elbow and his chest. As he shifted, pushing his wallet firmly back into his front pocket, a wisp of foam slid off the cup lid onto his shirt, clinging and darkening the crisscross pattern underneath.

Sean licked his lips, throat suddenly, surprisingly parched. He could feel a thought carefully winding its laggard and wobbly way through his consciousness, bobbing through the bubbles, waiting to break through the fine layer of alcohol to articulation.

He leaned heavily on Viggo's shoulder, levering himself upright, out of his comfortable slump, and as his spine realigned, the bubbles broke. Sean grinned as he shouted over the music, "Maybe later you can show me _your_ willy!"

Viggo smiled, patted his leg and handed him another beer.


End file.
